


The Wall

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to "Killers." Blair witnesses a private moment when Jim goes to the Law Enforcement Memorial in Washington, DC, to honor his fallen friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wall

 

First published in  _Sentry Post 7_ (2002)

 

_Over forty-nine thousand police officers were assaulted in this country in 1997._

_Thirteen thousand, one hundred and five of them were injured._

The motorcade had been pretty impressive, Blair had to admit, more officers than he could count riding by on their personal and official motorcycles in a parade of respect for their fallen comrades. That had been followed by a touching presentation on the Mall in downtown Washington, DC, the vice-president and several other notables speaking on the sanctity and honor of police work. Then, two days of symposiums later, it had been a ceremony at the Law Enforcement Memorial, the formal dedication of the names of fallen officers that had been added that year to the two curved walls. But all of that had been building up to this, the culminating event. The candlelight vigil.

Jim Ellison had been, as Blair was beginning to get used to, rather laconic about the whole event. Only a month after Danny Choi’s burial, he’d simply announced to Sandburg one day that he was leaving for a while to go to Washington for the memorial events of National Law Enforcement Week. It had been bad timing for Blair, the beginning of May, with merely two weeks before classes ended and exams were to begin. Nor had Ellison expected his new roommate to come along, that was pretty clear from his method of notification. Maybe that was what did it, or the fresh memories of Danny’s funeral, but Blair had known almost immediately that he had to go, too.

It hadn’t taken the anthropologist much time to cobble together emergency leave and a list of subs for his classes and hours. Convincing Jim was harder, but finally the detective had shrugged with an indifferent, “Whatever.” And so, there they were in Washington, DC, taking place in a week-long tribute to a society Blair Sandburg couldn’t have been much less interested in only a few months before.

“Hey, how do we dress for this thing tonight? I mean, is it formal?” Blair fidgeted as he studied his sad pile of clothing, trying to figure out what would be appropriate for both the occasion and the fickle Washington spring weather.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jim said shortly behind him, already starting to put on the dress uniform he’d worn through most of the proceedings. Just as so many other officers from all over the country that Blair had seen.

“Jeans?” Blair pushed, skeptical. The evening before had been chilly. So was the mood in their hotel room, for that matter, though it didn’t stop Blair from trying.

“Fine.” Jim almost paused, casting him an odd half-glance as Blair had caught him doing already more than once that week, as though he were still trying to figure out why the younger man was there. “Just being here shows your respect,” he unexpectedly added, turning away to the mirror.

“Oh.” Was that progress? Blair wasn’t even sure anymore. With a mental shrug, he grabbed the jeans and only slightly wrinkled black shirt. Bright colors didn’t feel right at all.

They finished dressing in silence, just as most of that week had passed, Blair wondering yet again what was on the Sentinel’s mind.

 

_One hundred seventy-eight police officers were killed in the line of duty in 1998._

 

Blair had never been to a policeman’s funeral before Danny's.

Rows of officers in dress uniform had lined both sides of the walkway to the chapel, all in spotless dress uniforms, standing at attention. Their eyes had stared straight ahead, but without exception, the gazes were turned inward, trying still in the privacy of their thoughts to make sense of the senseless slaying of one of their own. None of them had appeared to be succeeding.

The stiff row of honor guards remained at attention as the family passed through, just a weeping mother and a withdrawn, shell-shocked teenager. And gently leading them gently had been Jim Ellison, tall and imposing in his uniform.

Blair had remained in the back, forgotten by the detective who was the reason he was there, but keeping an eye on the Sentinel and providing his own form of back-up. He’d watched as even the honor guard had silently broken the motionless ranks to wipe at streaming eyes, as hardened veterans turned to fellow officers for a quick, fierce embrace. He’d trailed along after a procession of mostly officers down to the gravesite, more uniforms than Blair had ever seen in one place before. He’d listened to the playing of taps and the gun salute for a fallen comrade.

But mostly, he’d kept his eyes on Jim.

Ellison was no stranger to death, Blair knew that. The ex-Ranger had already once buried his whole squad single-handedly, and then, as a cop, two partners. Blair didn’t know any of the details, wouldn’t have known anything at all if not for hearing the rumors, the whispers of “iron-jawed Ellison.” The cop who wouldn’t know what to do with a feeling if he got one, who wasn’t fazed by loss, who maybe didn’t even care.

The detective certainly had seemed to live up to his reputation at Danny’s funeral. He’d kept one arm around Shu-Lan Choi, attentive to the mother who was burying her son, but his eyes...Blair shivered. He’d thought Jim Ellison a cold fish when they’d first met, but that was nothing compared to those blue-grey steel eyes. Ice would have been warmer. They contained no sign of grief or pain, no sign of any feeling at all. It would have been tempting to believe the rumors then.

Except for what Blair had seen three nights before in a chilly, dark alley. He’d stood behind that same Jim Ellison as the detective knelt on the wet pavement, his arms wrapped around Danny Choi’s body, screaming his grief. It had been such a primal, soul-deep reaction, it had frozen Blair where he stood, helplessly watching. There had been no tears, not even anger, just grieving. And if Blair had had any doubts before then about the depths of the still waters of one Sentinel detective, they were laid to rest there.

The funeral ended, officers milling about talking in hushed, stunned whispers. Tears were swallowed, though many eyes shone with them. Blair had moved among them with gaze averted, giving them their privacy. It was a club he didn’t belong to and probably never would.

Only Jim remained set apart, standing watch over Mrs. Choi and her younger son like his tribal predecessors must have. His expression never changed, carved in stone, and his eyes remained cold and dry. That night in the alley he hadn’t cried, nor since then, just withdrawn behind that same repelling wall. Even his senses had gone off-line, Blair knew, but as Ellison had also frozen him out, not saying more than a half-dozen words to him outside of work since Danny’s shooting, there was little he could to help except stand by and wait.

And wait.

Once the funeral was behind them, they went on to solve Danny’s killing, figured out Jim’s newest sensory problem, and life had finally picked up and gone on. If nothing else, Blair had consoled himself, he’d gained a rare peek behind the uniforms. And, for one brief moment, into James Ellison.

It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.

 

_On average, one police officer somewhere in this country is killed every 54 hours._

_Their average age is 37, and time of service is 10 years._

The sounds of the lone bagpipe faded and an audible hush settled on the crowd. So far, the vigil had been like every other event that week, a series of respectful, hushed speeches, numbing statistics, and shared personal stories. Blair had listened to them all in half-rapt, half-distracted silence, partly focused on the tall policeman who stood by him, trying to see it through his eyes. And still feeling profoundly left out. Jim Ellison had glared straight ahead through the whole program, eyes fixed on the podium, although Blair had a suspicion the Sentinel wasn’t seeing what he was looking at. Every line of his figure spoke of tension and internal pressure.

Except for one large hand, which cupped a single white candle with firm gentleness.

Blair held an identical candle, and he shifted his grip on it as he watched the thin stream of people advance to the large candle that burned on the dais, one by one lighting their own candles from its flame. Then they moved out among the crowds, lighting the candles of those around them with their own, spreading the light. Blair watched with awe as the blanket of light slowly spread through the crowd, the small flames bobbing and flickering in the spring breeze, advancing outward, pushing back the dark.

It finally reached them. Jim moved then for the first time, tilting his candle almost reverently to light it off the candle held by another uniformed officer next to him, giving the man a quiet nod as he did. And then he turned to Blair, his movements graceful, no longer the stilted, stiff cop who had stood at attention next to Sandburg all evening. His eyes rose, meeting Sandburg’s for one shared moment, the warm blue a counterpoint to the frigid azure ice of late. Blair met his gaze soberly, affirming he felt it too, and then the moment broke and Jim looked away again, following the progress of the light as Blair turned to light the candle of the woman on his other side.

It wasn’t much longer before the whole open area in the middle of the memorial was lit with the gentle candlelight. A brief, respectful pause, and then a musical tribute was sung by a policeman’s choir, followed by one last bagpipe solo. And then, as one, the gathering extinguished their light, Blair leaning forward to blow out his candle as he saw Jim do the same from the corner of his eye. Still not a word spoken between them. Frankly, Blair had no clue what to say.

The crowds began to break up, many leaving or beginning to mill around the emptying memorial.

The names began then. Read by state starting with Alabama, different guests took turns reading off the names of officers killed in the line of duty, both from the past year and those previously not honored. It rolled along, a solemn backdrop as people gravitated toward the walls to make their own personal tributes.

Without a word, Jim also began to move. Blair watched him silently for a moment, but with no invitation to follow--or instruction to stay behind--forthcoming, he began to trail the detective. Ellison wove through the crowds apparently heedless of his shadow, heading with the rest for the wall that stood only a few feet behind them.  

At first glance, the wall had seemed anticlimactic to Blair, particularly compared to the similar idea of the Vietnam Memorial. Only a low-slung, stone barrier, engraved with the names of American law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty, tonight it was decked out in honor. Jim began to walk along its length, his gaze sweeping the scrolling names with such intensity that Blair wondered if he was using his senses, seeing far more than Sandburg did.

What Blair saw was heart-rending enough. Patches from police departments all across the country were taped above and below the names, respectful remembrances for fallen comrades. Family pictures were almost as plentiful, mostly baby pictures and snapshots of children. A single white glove was draped over the top, next to a rubbing of one of the names. Short, personal messages littered the wall, left for the dead, to be read only by the living. Blair knelt next to a brief one that was affixed next to a patch, reading the carefully written words:

                        I brought you one of the new patches. I remember how you

                       hate changes, but as we have all come to learn, we have very

                       little control over what changes even in our everyday lives.

                        ‘Til we meet again.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Blair rose to his feet and moved on, picking up his pace a little to catch up to Jim as the detective went steadily, slowly on.

Blair's gaze shifted away from the wall, to the people milling around them. About half the crowd was civilians now, many of them with the dried, hollow-eyed look of resigned grief. Most of them seemed to be families and friends of victims, Blair silently decided, personally invested in some name on the two long stretches of wall.

The rest were uniformed officers, and their faces were a revelation to the young anthropologist. Many had bright, wet eyes, faces creased with grief and loss. Some fought back tears as they did pencil rubbings of names, or ran their fingers over and over a single etching as if it were the last personal contact they had with their lost friends. Strangers stopped to pat the back of brothers in blue in silent empathy. While the civilians had cried themselves out long before, Blair had to wonder if many of the officers were allowing themselves grief for the first time, there among friends and those who understood.

Blair’s gaze returned to the back of his companion, still wondering.

Jim Ellison moved respectfully among the crowds, stepping around those crouching by the wall, his head still turned toward the long stream of names but his steps that of a man on a mission, heading toward a goal. At the end of the wall, past the iron lions that guarded the memorial’s entrance, stood a sheltered book with the names of all those on the wall and the locations of the names. Blair thought for a moment that Ellison was going to the book, but the detective swept past it, to the mirror wall on the opposite side of the memorial. _Of course._ Blair knew then where he was heading, to one of the newly added names they’d watched being dedicated earlier that week.

And there Jim stopped. Sandburg anticipated the action and also stopped a few feet away, his eyes drawn to the fresh engraving. _Daniel Choi._ Despite the fact that he hadn’t known the guy at all, had only seen him briefly before Choi had been gunned down, Blair found his throat closing a little at the sight. And at the memory of Ellison’s reaction, keening his sorrow and anger as he held Danny’s body...

The detective reached out a hand almost reverently, fingers brushing first lightly over the edges of the name, then more deliberately, tracing the contours. No doubt feeling every grain of the stone wall, Blair thought with pained fascination, the minute roughness of the carved name, the subtle toolmarks. Forming a sensory imprint far beyond anything the younger man would ever know, in Jim's own attempt to touch his old friend once more, the only way he had left.

Behind them, the reading of names ran on, through lengthy Texas and then Utah. Jim traced each letter of _Daniel_ with gentle intensity. Virginia went by, and Washington state began. His fingers moved over the _C,_ then the _H._  

“Daniel Choi,” came the sober recitation behind them.  

The Sentinel heard, and his composure cracked. He traced the _O_ even as his shoulders began to tremble, face contorting with the long-held pain Blair had seen on nearly every other uniformed officer’s face there that night. Then finally the _I_. And with that last letter, to Blair’s relief and dismay, iron-jawed, unfeeling, indestructible Ellison gave way to tears.    

Blair stood frozen for a moment, awkward and unable to help. Is this why Ellison hadn’t asked him along, not wanting an audience for his mourning? And yet this was a place where inhibitions seemed to be unimportant, where healing finally began. Maybe this fell under Companion to the Sentinel, or maybe not, Blair didn’t know. But he had to do something. Why else had he dropped everything to fly across the country with Ellison and be with him there?

He moved forward with hesitation nonetheless, winging it with every step until he reached the detective’s side. Then, after another brief bout of awkwardness, he laid a hand on the taller man’s shoulder and simply stood there, a reminder that the Sentinel was not alone.

His presence wasn’t acknowledged, but it wasn’t refused, either. And after a minute, Jim leaned a little against him, still not looking at him or talking to him, but at least drawing comfort in his company.

Some time later, the detective finally swiped at his eyes and turned back to him. It was another shared moment of no words, no embarrassment.

_I know_ , Blair nodded.

Ellison nodded back. Then silently looked at the wall again and, with a last gentle brush of the name, straightened and walked away, heading toward their hotel without looking back.

Blair swallowed, then hurried to keep up, knowing that Ellison knew he’d follow.

He couldn’t see the detective’s eyes, but Sandburg could have laid wager that they were the same apparently emotionless steel of before. Only, he’d seen now something of what was behind them, had seen their true depths, and they would never be the same iced blue to him again.

_Iron-jaw Ellison. If they only knew._

And not for the first time, Blair Sandburg wondered if he’d gotten into something far more than just being Companion to the Sentinel.

 

_The walls of the National Law Enforcement Memorial hold the names of nearly_

_15,000 officers of the law who have given their life in the performance of their duty._

They hadn’t said a word the rest of the evening. Blair quietly worked on some papers he’d brought along while Jim sat out on the small hotel balcony, alone with his thoughts. He’d still been there when Blair had finally turned in around two in the morning, exhausted both emotionally and physically. He’d whispered a “good-night, Jim” as he did, knowing the Sentinel would hear it even if Ellison gave no sign.

And the next morning they’d checked out and went to the airport, boarding the plane for Cascade, words traded briefly and only out of necessity. Two weeks before, the silence would have made Blair nervous, both for wondering what was going on in the bigger man’s mind, and for the need to restrain himself in this still-tentative partnership. Now, it just felt right, time to absorb the week and, for Blair, a whole other look at this new world he had entered. That of both law enforcement, and of Jim Ellison, Sentinel.

It was only on the plane, halfway across the country, that Jim finally spoke up, his eyes shut as he leaned back against the headrest, ostensibly dozing.

“I’m glad you came, Chief.”

And, contented, Blair simply smiled in response.  

_“We don’t get paid for what we do, we get paid for what we might have to do.”_

_\- S. Gonzalez_

 

 The End


End file.
